


"Brothers and Friends"

by Coralrose10



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-23 13:25:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11403333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coralrose10/pseuds/Coralrose10
Summary: At Christmas 2005, one year after their father's death and eleven years after their mother's, actor brothers Joseph and Ralph Fiennes prepare to face, together, a potentially gloomy holiday.





	"Brothers and Friends"

**Author's Note:**

> "Brothers and Friends" is a work of hurt/comfort fanfiction, a blend of fantasy and fact.

**"Brothers and Friends"**  

   At 11:00 PM on December 22, 2005, Joseph Fiennes lay awake in the sitting room of the London home his brother and fellow actor, Ralph, shared with longtime girlfriend and fellow thespian, Francesca Annis. Ralph had celebrated his 43rd birthday that day; he, Francesca, and Joseph ate dinner together in a restaurant before returning to the house to share an exquisitely decorated, chocolate cake. No sooner was the party over than it began to snow; 36-year-old Joseph (called “Joe” by his family and friends) opted to stay the night at his brother’s home rather than travel back to his own. Francesca and Ralph had made Joe comfortable on the sitting-room divan before retiring to their own room for the night.

Now the flat was eerily silent and, despite the wine he had drunk with his dinner, Joe did not feel sleepy at all. Perhaps it was the strong, French coffee that had accompanied Ralph’s birthday cake, he thought. Or perhaps...Joe’s hazel eyes filled with tears; the bright, white lights of the Christmas tree grew blurry as he gazed at them. Considering the season, tears and sad memories were unavoidable; by a morbid coincidence, Joe and Ralph had lost both their parents at Christmastime. Jennifer (or “Jini”) Fiennes, their mother, died on December 28, 1993 of breast cancer; Mark Fiennes, their father, died on December 30, 2004 of a heart attack. This, then, would be the seven Fiennes siblings’ first Christmas without their beloved father–whereas they had dearly missed their beautiful mother every Christmas for the past eleven years.

Those eleven years had been hardest of all for Ralph, Joe knew–because his birthday, as well as his Christmas, had always been marred by lingering grief. Indeed, Ralph had looked near to crying at a few points during dinner and dessert that evening, Joe reflected now. Poor Ralph–he often seemed melancholy, and not as an adult only. No, even as an adolescent, the eldest Fiennes sibling had too frequently been made to bear the burden of Jini’s own grief. Jini Fiennes, for all her loving-kindness, had been depressed...a manic depressive...Joe was never quite sure what to call it. Having received little love (and much abuse) from her own parents, Jini grew up determined to share love with a family of her own. With Mark Fiennes she had six children and adopted one child; she _did_ prove a loving, nurturing mother to them all. Yet her past hurts had never healed; she could still be volatile, with startling mood swings–and occasionally she was unkind, to Ralph in particular. She always apologized tearfully afterwards, covering Ralph (or whomever she'd offended) with kisses. And, Joe reflected, Jini couldn’t really help herself; her life had been so hard. _Poor Mum_...

 _And poor Dad. He was like Ralph–so gentle–and he had to put up with all of that. He had to put up with all of us kids as well. And yet he never complained. Never. He just-calmly took charge of things._  
Unlike Jini’s, Mark’s death had been sudden. With their father, then, there had been no time for goodbyes; there had been no opportunity to thank him for all he had done for them...

Joe sighed deeply–numbly. He wandered to the window and gazed out upon snowy London. The swirling, white flakes and the hush reminded him of a snow globe his mother had owned, that depicted a scene from Dickens’ _A Christmas Carol_. As a small boy, Joe would sit and stare at that globe–even wishing to enter the silent, colorful world its sphere of glass enclosed. Now, as an adult, he wished with all his heart that he could feel the peace and the calm he thought he saw through the window, in the luminous, snow-covered street below.

Again Joe’s vision blurred. _Why_ must he feel this way? Was it all down to his childhood? Because of Jini’s problems and her early attempts to launch her writing career–and because of Mark’s unpredictable photography career–the Fiennes children’s upbringing had been somewhat eccentric, with countless relocations and a pervading lack of money. Love for each other and for the arts held them all together. Still, they had heard stories from Jini–true tales of abuse–no child ought to hear; they had seen things–hysterical weeping fits from their mother–no child ought to see. How much better might things have gone, Joe wondered suddenly, had there been fewer kids? Suppose–suppose only _he_ had been born? For the first time in his life, Joe dared to consider the possibility. In many ways, he concluded, such a scenario might have been great! Far less expensive, obviously; far less work for Jini–a good deal less stress on her delicate nerves. Having more time in which to write, her career could have been even more successful than it ultimately was; being a mum would not have hindered her true passion nearly so much as it did...

Joe shook his head to stop this dreadful chain of thought. What the hell was the matter with him? Here he was, _on Ralph’s birthday_ , wishing that Ralph had never been born! Horrified, Joe turned abruptly from the window–only to spot Ralph’s DVD collection on a nearby bookshelf. “I’ll watch a film,” he decided. “That’ll distract me, and perhaps get me drowsy.”  
As he studied his brother’s collection, Joe was moved by the realization that not only Ralph’s films but his own were all present; clearly, Ralph was proud of him. With a lump in his throat, Joe noted the titles: _Shakespeare in Love...Elizabeth...Luther...The Merchant of Venice..._ That last one had premiered a mere three months before Mark’s death. Automatically, Joe removed _The Merchant of Venice_ from the shelf, popped it into the DVD player, and settled down upon the sofa, ready for a viewing session.

Watching himself in the role of Bassanio, Joe realized, by the end of his first big scene, how utterly pointless it had been to wish he was an only child. He would have been a lesser actor had this been the case; as it was, Ralph’s influence was quite evident in Joe’s outstanding performance. Ten years ago, when Ralph starred in _Hamlet_ on Broadway, Joe had proudly attended opening night (at which performance Ralph touchingly reserved a seat in Jini’s memory) and several subsequent performances. Bassanio was no Hamlet; but Joe’s Bassanio often _recalled_ Ralph’s highly praised Hamlet. It wasn’t simply that Joe looked much as Ralph had in 1995; his Shakespearean phrasing, too, bore all the hallmarks of Ralph’s “superb” (one critic’s word) phrasing, which Joe had never forgotten.

“I’d be nothing without Ralph,” he admitted, as the tears began to flow. “And neither of us– _none_ of us–would be anything without Mum.” Jini Fiennes may occasionally have lost her temper badly over silly things; but in every important way she was a wonderful mother. Above all, she had always encouraged the considerable talents of her seven children. For better or for worse–mostly for better, Joe thought now–Jini had made him who he was today.

And yet she was gone. His kind father was gone. In this world he would never see them again. As the realization hit him with full force, Joe sobbed and hugged himself; he had all he could do to keep from screaming. Abruptly, the television was switched off. Through badly blurred vision, Joe read the clock: 12:15. At least eight hours remained until Ralph or Francesca would rise. Joe hated the thought of being alone that long. Perhaps he should go right now and wake up Ralph...

“Joe? Joe, why are you sitting in the dark like this? You’re crying, aren’t you. What’s wrong?” Tears clinging to his eyelashes, Joe looked up to see Ralph, in a blue satin dressing gown, peering down at him, his forehead creased with concern.  
In the midst of his sorrow, Joe felt himself clam up. Suddenly afraid to tell Ralph just what had upset him, he faltered, “I don’t know. I’m just–sad for no special reason, I suppose. It must be this time of the year...”

Even as he averted his eyes, more tears fell. Ralph noticed; he gently pressed a soft handkerchief into his brother’s hand as he sat down beside him. “It’s about Dad, isn’t it,” Ralph said quietly. “Dad and Mum.”  
Clutching the handkerchief like a security blanket, Joe nodded in agreement before breaking down completely.  
“Here,” whispered Ralph, wrapping both arms around Joe and pulling him close. Joe rested his head against Ralph’s accommodating shoulder and sobbed, “Christmas hasn’t even come yet, and already I can’t wait for it to be done with!”  
“I know, I know,” murmured Ralph sympathetically. “I had the same thought today.”  
“Poor Dad! How are we going to bear the holidays? What are all of us going to do?”  
“We’ll just have to stay close together, Joe. You and me; Jacob, Sophie, Martha–everyone. We’ll have to draw in very close. We all love each other; we can get through anything as long we’re together–“ Ralph’s voice broke from emotion; he could say no more. A tear trickled down his cheek. In response, Joe hugged Ralph tightly; Ralph continued to rub Joe’s back in calming, circular motions. For several minutes the two brothers remained in this attitude, drawing comfort from their mutual closeness.  
“Ralph's really very caring, and he's always been so kind to _me_ ,” thought Joe. He was, in fact, coming to consider Ralph as something of a father figure, now that Mark was gone. In the same way, Joe’s older sisters, Martha and Sophie, became almost mother figures to him after Jini’s death.

Feeling a sudden need to confide in his brother, Joe said, “Ralph?”  
“Yes, Joe?”  
“Do you remember that snow globe Mum had?”  
“The _Christmas Carol_ one? Martha’s got it now.”  
“Well...it’s silly,” Joe continued, “but I was thinking about that globe before, when I was looking out your window at the snow. I was remembering how, when I was a kid and Mum was in a bad mood or I was bored, I wished I could escape into it. Did–did you ever wish anything like that?”  
“Oh, yeah! Not with the snow globe, but with my Pollock’s Theatre.”  
As a child, Ralph’s favorite plaything had been a lavish, Victorian-style, cardboard “theatre” Jini had bought for him at Benjamin Pollock’s, a famous toy shop in Covent Garden. As an adult, Ralph still had this toy theatre and the string-operated “actors” that went with it. He always credited his Pollock’s Theatre with sparking his love for drama.  
“I used to spend hours playing with that toy theatre,” Ralph continued nostalgically. “To me it seemed almost magical: a world of its own.”  
“I always wished I had one, too,” said Joe with a wistful smile.  
Ralph looked at him in surprise. “Joe, I had no idea! Would you–would you like to take mine now?”  
“No, Ralph. No.”  
“Well, Benjamin Pollock’s is still in business. Why don’t you go there tomorrow and buy a toy theatre for yourself?”  
Still smiling wistfully, Joe shook his head. “That would be too childish.” He yawned.  
“Time for bed,” Ralph observed softly. He had been about to tell Joe that at times _he_ still "fooled about" with _his_ Pollock’s Theatre; instead, he indicated the divan and said,“Lie down, and I’ll tuck you in.” In response to Joe’s incredulous expression, he added, “Please? I want to.”

Secretly glad, Joe lay back and allowed Ralph to arrange the warm comforter around him, just as he had occasionally done when Joe was small. Joe tucked his brother’s handkerchief beneath his pillow before accepting a goodnight peck on the cheek from him.  
“No, no. It’s going to be all right,” Ralph gently reiterated when Joe, hit with a pang of nostalgia for his childhood, showed signs of tearing up again. “Remember what I said: we’ll all get through this _together_.”  
His head on the pillow, Joe nodded. “I know. Thanks, Ralph.” He swallowed hard. “I love you.”  
How odd that it should be so difficult to say!  
There was a slight pause; then Ralph, his voice thick with feeling, said, “I love you too, Joe–very much.”

****

It was not until 10:15 the next morning that Joe woke up–to the sight of a Pollock’s Theatre beneath the Christmas tree. Joe rubbed his eyes in confusion. _That’s not Ralph’s theatre–so I suppose it’s mine! Yes, Ralph must have gone out early, in the snow, to buy it for me..._

Feeling quite like his younger self on Christmas morning, and forgetting to be embarrassed, Joe leapt from the divan to get a closer look at the toy. This new theatre certainly resembled Ralph’s: colorful, Victorian in style, and with “actors and actresses” in Renaissance costume. A little placard before its “stage” boldly announced, “Shakespeare’s _Romeo and Juliet_." Taped to the theatre was a note, in Ralph’s elegant handwriting, that read, “An early Christmas present for you, Joe. Don’t feel silly–I still play with  mine.”

Setting aside the toy theatre, Joe covered his face with his hands and wept happily for several minutes. When he had calmed down, he washed his face, dressed, and wandered out into the kitchen after dropping Ralph's now-damp handkerchief into a laundry basket in the hall. Joe could hear his brother's voice speaking to someone on the hallway telephone: a woman, clearly. It quite obviously was not Martha or Sophie, however, and Joe did not think it was Francesca, either (she did seem to be absent from the house, but why would Ralph talk with her on the phone?). He shook his head in consternation. Ralph always _had_ been something of a ladies’ man; recently, he'd confided in Joe about some problems he and Francesca were having. Could it be that Ralph was actually _seeing someone_ behind Francesca's back?

Bemused, Joe turned to the kitchen counter, on which sat a covered plate of marmalade and toast; two unbroken eggs reposed beside a frying pan. Evidently, Ralph had been in the process of making Joe’s breakfast when the phone interrupted him. Touched, Joe felt his mouth water in anticipation of Ralph's excellent cooking.

The hall had turned silent; presently, Ralph walked into the kitchen, looking fresh, rested, and not at all melancholy. At the sight of such contentment, Joe smiled. Smiling back, Ralph held out his arms; Joe hurried into Ralph’s embrace, thanking him sincerely for the Pollock’s Theatre.  
“I could tell last night that you really did want one,” Ralph remarked warmly. “Like I said, I still fool about occasionally with mine. I find it’s great for the imagination, and–for revisiting your childhood....Oh, please don’t start crying, Joe; I haven’t got a handkerchief on me at the moment to offer you! Where’s the one I lent you last night?”  
“In with the laundry,” Joe replied, laughing along with Ralph as he wiped his moist eyes on his hand. Silently and affectionately, he noted that Ralph, with all his care-taking, was very much the typical “older brother”!

It was on the tip of Joe’s tongue to ask Ralph about the mysterious phone conversation... _but why spoil such a peaceful, warm, and wonderful present moment?_   He and Ralph were together, and they were happy. Tomorrow, more of their siblings would join them; everyone would be together. As far as this year’s Christmas holidays were concerned, Joe decided, family closeness was the only thing that truly mattered...  
“We’ll have a look at your theatre in a bit,” said Ralph. “Perhaps I’ll get mine out, too! But I want you to eat and to feel better, Joe–so why don’t you just relax for now, whilst I make your scrambled eggs.”  
With a contented heart, Joe did as he was told. For the first time since the season arrived, he was actually looking forward to Christmas.  
 


End file.
